The Scars in the Man of Iron
by EchoResonance
Summary: A man isn't born strong. He is born dependent on his mother, and is later shaped by his environment. A man put through ridicule and torment must either become iron, or break like glass. But it isn't really that simple...Even the strongest man has scars from his past, scars he'll never be proud of
1. Prologue

He wasn't…well-liked. People mocked his very name, and they didn't wait until he turned around to do it. They would ridicule him straight to his face. They called him crazy, a freak, and said that on top of being nuts, he was a self-centered asshole that would someday be behind the murder instead of solving it. They laughed when he spoke, snorted in disgust when he walked in the room, sneered when he made a rather callous but entirely true observation. He was no more than an object of torment, something nasty that couldn't understand them, or else something beyond human emotion who didn't care what was said. Sure, he had his uses. The only reason his name was mentioned at all was because he was _needed_ by the very people that seemed to despise him the most.

Sherlock knew all of this. How could he have missed it? Yet, in spite of all of their mockery and scorn, he continued to bear it for the sake of his cases, without showing any hint of emotion. It wasn't a far stretch for those people to say such cruel things about him, especially when they had yet to see him openly display any emotion except passive interest and irritation. He could certainly pass for an uncaring robot of a being, but he was an incredibly intelligent robot. He knew all of this as well. The man brushed it off time and time again, simply ignored their jabs or else just couldn't bring himself to care.

But was this how he truly felt, or was it just what everyone else saw? Was it possible that, behind that calm and collected exterior, was a man in agony, screaming for someone to see him, to hear him, to really and truly understand him? Could Sherlock Holmes possibly be hiding what nearly every single human being hides throughout the entirety of their lives? Hiding the desire that drove the human mind, the thing that made people push themselves harder and harder, just for a bit of recognition? It seemed unlikely, and to most, it seemed impossible. After all, when nothing could ever fracture such a perfect calm, that had to be because there was nothing behind the mask which could show through the cracks. It was simple enough. And yet…

Could Sherlock Holmes be hiding the need to feel accepted? Was he hiding a bitter pain in his heart, the pain of a man who knew deep down that this desire could never be fulfilled?


	2. The Cut In Iron

"Sherlock, really, it's blazing hot outside," John said in disbelief, looking at his partner in a long-sleeved button-down shirt. "Don't you own something lighter?"

"No, of course not," Sherlock answered absently, looking at an old sheet of violin music. "Why should I? I already have more clothes than I need."

"Says the man who went to the Queen's palace in a bed sheet," John muttered.

"Hm? What was that?" Sherlock said, glancing up.

"Nothing," John said quickly, folding his hands behind his back. "Fancy going out for a spell?"

He expected Sherlock to decline this offer, for reasons that John would hear but not really comprehend, and then tell him to go on if he wanted. That was how he treated the requests of others, unless a particularly strange crime was involved. But, much to John's surprise, Sherlock set aside his violin and bow without a word and stood, straightening his shirt as he did so.

"Oh, why not?" he said, then raised his eyebrows at John's startled expression and gestured toward the door. "Are we leaving?"

"Uh, right," John said, blinking quickly. "But, ah, before we go, do you want to change? You could borrow one of my shirts. It'll be more comfortable in this heat."

"No, I'm quite alright," Sherlock answered, and it could have been John's imagination, but he thought the private consultant made a very slight movement with one hand, as if to shake the sleeve of his shirt farther down.

Dismissing this as a mistake on his part, John led the way out of the flat, with Sherlock right at his shoulder. They paused out on the sidewalk, squinting in the glaring sunlight until their eyes had adjusted. Once they could see properly, Sherlock turned to John, whose hands were in his pockets.

"Was there any place in particular you had in mind?" he asked blandly. "Or did you ask without thinking as usual?"

John frowned at Sherlock, but the much taller man didn't bat an eyelash, or do anything else that might hint at what he was thinking. He just continued staring down at John with those piercing, blue-green eyes. The doctor looked away hastily, his cheeks coloring from embarrassment, but at what, exactly?

"Ah, well—I thought we could—ah…" John mumbled. "I thought we could just, uhm, walk around a bit, I guess."

"Ah," Sherlock said, and his voice was so bland, he could have been emotionless. "Then walking it is."

So, with no clear destination in mind, the two began to walk down the sidewalk, their strides in perfect sync without John's old limp. It felt like a long time since he had needed his cane, but it was in truth only a few short months. He didn't know what it was about Sherlock, but people just seemed to part before him like the Red Sea before Moses. No, actually, that was a lie on all accounts. People scattered before Sherlock, not in a mystical or reverent matter, but a frightened one, like they were afraid that he would look at them and call out all of their wrongs for the entire street to hear, because most if not all of them knew who he was and what he could do. And John knew exactly what it was that made this happen. Sherlock just exuded this unapproachable, intimidating aura from his impressively striking figure. He was quite tall, lean but not muscular per se, with those high and prominent cheekbones and curly dark hair that stood in stark contrast with both his fair skin and his brilliantly vibrant, jewel-toned eyes. Sherlock Holmes could have walked off of a painted Greek vase as a god of Olympus, and that was enough to scare just about everyone away.

"What?" Sherlock said suddenly.

John blinked and realized, horrified, that he'd been staring at Sherlock as they walked, going over each feature he had described in his head, and lingering on those eyes, eyes that were already fixed on him.

"Erm…" John mumbled.

"Something on my face?" the consultant wondered, reaching up to touch his flawless complexion.

As he did this, his shirt sleeve hitched up a few inches above his wrist, something that he clearly didn't notice or just didn't pay any heed to. But John noticed, and something highly unusual caught his eye. Without conscious thought, without even realizing what he was doing, the sandy blonde man's hand shot out and caught his companion's forearm in a vice-like grip. Startled, Sherlock automatically moved to pull away, but John didn't release him. Those jewel-toned eyes, widened in surprise, moved from the doctor's face to where his gaze was locked on those few inches of bare wrist, and his lips pressed into a thin line. He put more force into his struggle, and managed to break free of John's fingers, immediately pulling his sleeve down again. It didn't matter, though, because just as Sherlock could remember damn near anything he saw, that one image was branded into John's mind.

As pale as Sherlock's skin was, it was a miracle that John had seen the silvery scars. Especially in such a setting, it was against incredible odds that he had noticed. After all, how many times had John seen Sherlock's wrists before, and never noticed anything? There had been those times when Sherlock was at his microscope in the lab, but the lighting was so poor in there that it wouldn't have been able to illuminate anything, and when Sherlock was playing his violin, but then he was in constant motion, so one couldn't pinpoint faint details. Then of course there was his infamous visit to Buckingham Palace wearing nothing but a bed sheet. His arms had most certainly been bare then, but John had been a little…distracted, to say the least, by Sherlock's lack of appropriate attire.

"Sherlock…" he said hoarsely. "You…"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake John," Sherlock said, with an attempt at his usual pomp. "I know you don't have an incredibly large vocabulary, but really, you should be able to form a coherent sentence nonetheless."

"Sherlock, those scars…" said the doctor, not missing the slightly brittle tone in Sherlock's voice.

"What about them?" he replied curtly.

"You…You did those yourself?"

Sherlock's silence was all the confirmation John needed, and he felt his jaw drop as much in amazement as it did in horror. The great, untouchable Sherlock Holmes, a victim of self harm?

"Wh-Why?" John demanded.

"What does it matter?" Sherlock answered, looking away. "They're from a long time ago."

They were. The perfect lines had been very faint, but somehow John's eye had caught them. Still, the simple fact that this man of iron had ever, _ever_ done such things to himself was just incomprehensible to his companion, who had seen him doubt himself, but never _hate_ himself.

"But they—you—" John spluttered, at an utter loss for words. "_Why_?!"

"I was feeling particularly low," said the taller of the two stiffly. "Isn't that why anyone does it?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose so, but—" the sandy-haired man said.

"But what?" Sherlock demanded.

"But you don't—you don't feel…low," John said, feeling very foolish.

He knew he sounded like a child whose illusions of Santa Clause has been shattered when he caught his parents sneaking presents under the tree, but well, that was how he felt. Sherlock had always been this strong, steady figure that could not be swayed by anything, be it harsh words or violent actions or large bribes. He simply couldn't be scathed. John knew the man wasn't perfect—good God, he knew _that_—but he had always been this determined man that could never be turned away from anything. So how, _how_ could this immovable man be driven to make those perfectly even silver lines across his wrist?

"Sorry to keep letting you down, John," said Sherlock with a bitter smile.

"Sherlock…"

Sliding his hands into his pockets, Sherlock turned back in the direction they had come. "Well, I think that's the end of this particular adventure. I'm heading back to the flat now."

"Sherlock, wait," John said, catching his friend's elbow just as he started to walk away. The doctor was suddenly and inexplicably afraid to let Sherlock go anywhere by himself.

"Don't wait on my account," said the dark-haired man. "You can go off and enjoy the sunshine some more. God knows you need the fresh air after being stuck in a hospital office all day."

"Because that stuffy flat is any better for you?" John demanded.

Sherlock jerked out of his grip.

"I'll see you later, then," he said, and went to walk away again. John caught him by the back of his shirt this time.

"Damnit Sherlock, at least tell me what those are from!" he commanded. A few passersby paused to look curiously at him, but when their eyes slid to the man he was holding by the shirt, they hastily hurried along their way.

Sherlock sighed heavily, and reached around his back to gently pry John's hand away from his shirt. Both sleeves hitched up a little bit as he did this, and revealed those scars again, causing a painful squeezing in John's chest.

"Come on then, John," Sherlock said quietly, turning to face the doctor. "Back to the flat, if you really want to know so badly."


	3. His Iron Chains

John sat across from Sherlock, arms folded, glowering balefully at the taller man who was slouching back comfortably in his chair as though he didn't have a care in the world. They'd walked back to the flat in silence, John chomping at the bit and Sherlock as expressionless as ever. Mrs. Hudson was out for the day, so it was just the two of them in the stuffy, cluttered quarters. Finally, after what felt like ages, John exploded in agitated impatience.

"Sherlock, why the hell did you cut your wrists?!" he burst.

Sherlock's eyes, which had been gazing quite intently out of the window, flicked to John, and a shadow passed over them, a shadow that lingered and seemed to darken until that gaze looked almost gray. The hairs on the back of John's neck stood up.

"I'm sure you've noticed what people say about me," Sherlock said, voice empty.

"Yes…" John said hesitantly. "But you always just ignore them."

"Yes, well, that was a learned habit. I wasn't always so…blasé about everything."

John blinked, a slight frown creasing his brow. Sherlock shifted heavily in his chair and crossed his legs beneath him, that same shadowed look haunting his eyes and giving John unpleasant shivers. That was not a look he liked on Sherlock. It was far too dark.

"I've heard those kinds of things ever since I was a child," Sherlock continued. "At first, I didn't really understand that what people were saying was meant to be mean, so I kept trying to make friends by impressing people with my talent. But, all I actually did was piss them off. They started saying all kinds of things—well, you can imagine, I suppose."

Slowly, John nodded, swallowing convulsively. Since he was a _child_? How could he still be functional, if he had been treated so poorly by everyone around him from the very beginning of his life?

"People only spoke to me if they needed something," Sherlock sustained. "Of course, even then, they were hardly what one would call friendly. Most of them were about on par with Anderson, albeit more mature."

Under other circumstances John might have laughed, but these weren't normal circumstances and, in any case, Sherlock wasn't trying to make a joke. What he'd said was simply something he had come up with as a slightly biased fact. Also, this wasn't a laughing matter to begin with. What person, however old, treated a young boy as something to be used and mocked at the same time?

"Well, as I grew up, I came to understand what was going on with my peers. I didn't especially care if they only talked to me because they had no idea who stole their bike. I was just happy that someone wanted my help. I didn't try to make friends anymore, and I tried to tone down my observations. For a while, it worked, and people started migrating toward me. I thought maybe that would be the end of it. But then puberty started."

John had to snort at the sheer drama of Sherlock's delivery of that final line. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, and he hastily sobered, gesturing for the man to continue.

"I never realized just how hard it was to control yourself until I had to deal with all of those abnormalities, those hormone changes. I started spouting off whatever I noticed again, and not only did the people I'd almost come to call friends vanish, but the mockery started all over again. I tried to block it out, but it really just didn't work. In my final year in secondary school, I entertained some…darker thoughts. I found I could empathize with those young teenagers who took their own lives, and on any number of occasions, I'd almost followed them."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed incredulously, sitting straight upright.

"John!" Sherlock answered.

John glowered and slumped back down, gesturing for Sherlock to continue.

"I couldn't bring myself to do it, though. I was too much of a coward, and really, suicide the way teenagers do it is so dreadfully boring and cliché."

"So…you settled on cutting yourself," John said, ignoring Sherlock's attempt at humor in favor of his strange rationalization.

"It distracted me," Sherlock shrugged. "The physical pain released some of the emotional distress, I suppose."

"Sherlock, that's…" John trailed off, struggling to find words to express just how much he hated the thought of Sherlock like that.

"Shameful? Appalling? Disgraceful?" Sherlock offered with a bitter smile. "Oh, I know. I was absolutely pathetic then."

"No, Sherlock, that's not—"

"But I learned how to cope after that." He shrugged again.

"But, Sherlock…" John said, and very cautiously he reached out over the table and caught one of the man's hands, pushing up his shirt sleeve and turning his arm over to expose the vulnerable wrist. "Not all of these are that old."

Indeed, some were paler than others, almost nonexistent silver next to slightly pink marks of no more than a few years. Gently Sherlock wrested his forearm from John's grasp and pulled his sleeve down yet again.

"Anderson and that lot were the first people I'd spoken with since I graduated, with the exception of Mycroft," Sherlock shrugged. "They took some adjusting to."

"And Mycroft? Does he…"

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "Imagine the look on his face if he knew I'd been so pathetic."

John was silent, staring at the other man with evident concern. Suddenly, Sherlock looked different to him. He saw in the consultant detective's place a high school boy, one with unruly hair, sitting silently at the back of a classroom with his shoulders hunched against the whispered assaults that battered him from nearby students. He saw the same boy huddled in the bathtub, drawing his mother's razor again and again across his white wrists, creating perfectly straight lines of red that stained his skin like a morbid watercolor. Then John pictured the present Sherlock, the one he knew, in the same position, and his fingers curled into the material of his shirt, right above his heart.

"Sherlock, that's awful," John said hoarsely.

"Yes, well, it's in the past," Sherlock said, standing up. "I don't see why it's important in any case. You have scars as well John, don't you?"

"One bullet wound," John said at once. "I didn't shoot _myself_, though!"

"Still irrelevant."

John opened his mouth, intending to explain to Sherlock exactly _why_ it was important, but then stopped. With a start, John realized that he _couldn't_ explain why this was of any relevance to him. What Sherlock had done in the past, and even in his private time now, should have been of no great concern to John, and yet he felt fundamentally wrong by letting this one thing go. It wasn't any business of his—he should just forget about it. As soon as John thought this, the image of that boy with his bleeding wrists came unbidden to his mind.

"John?" Sherlock said curiously, pausing in the act of moving away. "What's wrong? You're rather pale."

For the third time that day, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, but he didn't pull up the sleeve of the violet shirt. No, instead John stood, and he pulled Sherlock toward him, wrapping his arms around the other man's torso and pinning his arms to his sides. Sherlock went stiff as a board, but didn't make to pull away.

"John, what—" he said.

"You're an idiot," John growled against Sherlock's chest.

"Sorry?" Sherlock replied, confused. He was most certainly _not_ an idiot.

"How could you not tell me something like that?" he demanded, and his arms tightened slightly.

"It was irrelevant," Sherlock answered, voice implying it was the simplest possible conclusion.

"Irrelevant my arse!" John snapped. "You know _everything_ about me, so why can't I know _anything_ about you?!"

Slowly, Sherlock relaxed in John's embrace, setting his chin on the crown of the shorter man's head.

"I didn't think you'd care to know…" said Sherlock honestly.

"Idiot," John said again. "How could I _not_ want to know?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and in that moment, John thought he might have sensed just the smallest, briefest shadow of loneliness flit in the other man's heart, and he held him even tighter than before, as if desperate to prove to Sherlock that he wasn't alone. He had a friend, a friend who was worried for him and who cared far more than he seemed to understand.

"No one else ever has."


	4. An Iron Will

Again, with Sherlock's irritating habit of saying horrible things in such a matter-of-fact tone. Usually, while this habit irked John, it didn't make his heart ache like this. Was it because, after being continually neglected by others, Sherlock had come to brush himself and his own problems off so easily? It was like Sherlock didn't value himself at all.

John held the man with all of his strength. He wouldn't let this happen anymore—he would make sure that Sherlock understood his worth from now on. He could, and he _would_, become a shoulder that Sherlock could lean on.

"Sherlock, of course I want to know," he said, finally relaxing and pulling away. "I'm your friend. I want to know as much about you as you know about me."

Sherlock looked down at him, his expression bemused. The shadow had cleared from his eyes, which were once more sparkling somewhere between bright blue and gorgeous green. His lips curled into a slow, small smile.

"Alright, John," he said, placing a large hand on his shoulder. "If it's really this important to you, I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Really?" John said, eyeing Sherlock shrewdly. Sherlock had made promises before, but there was always some loophole he left himself.

"Well, within reason," Sherlock amended.

"What's within reason?" John asked.

Sherlock, sighing a little, sat back down in his chair and gesture for John to do the same. He did hastily, eyes fixed on the consultant's face.

"Ask me and we'll see," said the curly-haired man.

"Okay…" said John, startled at the sudden proposition of a game of twenty questions. "Erm…Did you really want to be a pirate when you were younger?"

"I'd still like to be a pirate," answered Sherlock at once. "None of those boring rules, free to do what you want. The only problem is that the crew would be even less intelligent than the ones I'm around presently."

"Huh," said John, miffed by Sherlock's downplay of his IQ. "Okay…If you were dying, what would your last words be?"

Sherlock snorted when John echoes the question the consultant had posed in The Study In Pink.

"Please God, let me live?" Sherlock said with a smirk.

John tried to glower, but his own lips twitched up in amusement.

"Alright, alright," Sherlock chuckled. "It's difficult to answer that hypothetically."

"Well, try."

Sherlock looked out the window, thinking for a moment, glanced at John, and chuckled again. Then, in a very teasing tone, he answered.

"Goodbye, John."

John went red. Whether in embarrassment or in irritation, he wasn't sure, but regardless of the reason, his cheeks were far too warm. Sherlock wasn't fazed, and just gestured for John to continue. When John's voice returned from its trip through the land of discomfiture and his cheeks had returned to their normal hue, he asked the last question he could think of.

"When was the last time you did…that…" he said, pointing at Sherlock's wrists but unable to actually say _cut yourself_.

Sherlock's expression sobered.

"I don't honestly recall," he said. John pressed his lips into a thin line, but Sherlock continued before he could say anything. "I can tell you, John, that I haven't done it since I met you."

John, whose face had barely cooled, flushed again. What Sherlock of course meant as a simple fact sounded very different to John's ears. Sherlock was just using their meeting as a reference point, yet it sounded to John like _he_ was the reason it had stopped. That was a foolish thought, a stupid hope, one that John flung away viciously.

"John, you look strange again," said Sherlock, and his brow furrowed.

"Do I?" said John roughly. "Sorry, I was just—"

"John."

The doctor blinked in surprise. His partner was gazing at him with a sharp intensity, his bright eyes boring holes into John's skull.

"Er, yeah?" said John hesitantly.

"This doesn't change anything," Sherlock said fiercely.

"What?" said John, confused.

"This," said Sherlock, and brandished his wrists. "It doesn't change anything. I'm not any different now for it."

"Er, okay?" he answered, still not really understanding what Sherlock was getting at.

"If it's okay, stop looking at me like that."

"Eh? Looking at you like what?"

Sherlock's features twisted contemptuously.

"Like you pity me," he growled. "I don't want your pity. I don't want you to look at me any differently."

"Sherlock…" John said slowly. How could he _not_ see Sherlock differently, after learning that?

"No, John," Sherlock said firmly. "The Sherlock you _know_; the one you met in the lab and the one you've been living with for months; that is me. That is who I am. _This _Sherlock—" he gestured to his wrists "—is in the past. He doesn't exist."

"But what if—"

"I won't start doing it again," Sherlock interrupted, answered the question that hadn't had the chance to be asked.

"You can't be—"

"I _can_ be sure," the man insisted.

"How?" demanded John.

"Because I haven't even thought of it _once_ since I met you, John Watson."

And yet again, a statement of fact that sounded like much more. John looked away, cursing this strong weakness he had for the arrogant consultant.

"I'm going for a walk," John said stiffly, rising to his feet and making for the door. "Don't wait up for me."

"John, hold on," said Sherlock, surprised. "Where are you—"

"I need some air," answered the doctor. "It's stuffy in here."

"Wait, I'll come with you," he said, starting to rise from his chair.

"That's alright," said John without looking at Sherlock. He started to walk away, but this time Sherlock's hand whipped out and caught John's in a powerful grip. John yelped and jumped back in surprise, but Sherlock didn't release him.

"I told you, nothing's changed," Sherlock sounded almost like he was pouting. "But now you're not looking at me at all. "What's going on in that funny little brain of yours, John?"

"Nothing," John mumbled.

"You can't lie to _me_, John," said Sherlock dryly. "Why can't you look me in the eye?"

"Because…"

Sherlock's long fingers tightened around John's wrist, and he pinned it against the wall. John's face was once more flaming red, and his green eyes were fixed resolutely on the floor, but Sherlock persisted. He pressed his forehead against John's, taking some small pleasure in the way his cheeks and ears darkened.

"John, tell me the tru—" Sherlock began, but cut himself off abruptly, glancing at John's wrist that he held. Against his fingers, John's pulse was thrumming beneath his skin quicker than it normally did, and his fingers were trembling slightly.

"John, look at me," the consultant said abruptly.

Startled by the sudden change from persuasive to commanding, John automatically glanced up before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to look. However, one glance was all Sherlock needed to see the dilated pupils in John's green eyes.

Sherlock swallowed, and his hand tightened around John's. Was his own heart beating a little faster? He knew the look in John's eyes—he'd seen it before, though then it hadn't hit him nearly as hard—but in a rare turn of events, Sherlock found that he doubted himself. Was he really interpreting John's body language correctly? Could John _possibly_ be…

"Erm, Sherlock…" mumbled John, turning his face away in embarrassment. "If someone walked in now, people will definitely talk."

"Let them," said Sherlock easily. "You're the only one that cares if people talk."

"Sherlock…" he grumbled.

"You don't want me to move away, John."

John's stomach dropped away, straight through the soles of his feet to crack the ground beneath him, because of the reply that came immediately to his mind and which very nearly escaped through his lips. That reply was _'no'_. _No_, he _didn't_ want Sherlock to move. He was protesting out of sheer habit, out of some sense that said he should, when in reality having the much taller man so close felt so much more natural to him than perhaps it should.

He wanted to deny this vehemently, but he knew it would be futile to do so, considering Sherlock Holmes only said that kind of thing when he was sure he was right. So instead John pressed his lips together and looked at the wall over Sherlock's right shoulder, his cheeks burning hotly.

"Sherlock," John pressed. "C'mon, let go. Mrs Hudson—"

"Is out," the dark-haired man finished. His low voice seemed even deeper than it usually did, resonating in John's chest, and his eyes were darker, though not the unsightly grey from earlier. "It's just you and I."

John swallowed convulsively, and he risked a glance at Sherlock's face. This was a big mistake, for when his eyes locked onto Sherlock's, he could not pull them away. For the first time that John could remember, Sherlock moved very, very slowly.


	5. Even Iron Wavers

Sherlock was being propelled by some unseen force, some strange thing that woke an incredibly foreign sensation in his chest, but which was familiar to him at the same time as basest instinct. He was leaning in of his own free will, and yet was powerless to do otherwise. His lips parted with clear intent, but unbidden was the action itself. It was strange. Sherlock was allowing himself to do something he'd never dared to consider before then, and that was to act without logical consideration.

Whenever they touched, John felt warm to Sherlock; a hand on the shoulder or a subtle nudge of the elbow. Whenever they touched, Sherlock felt pleasantly cool to John; fingers wrapped around fingers or the brush of a shoulder. But in the instant that their lips—strangers until now—met, both men seemed to have a blazing fire inside them. Sherlock was hot' his hand covered John's seemed to burn the doctor's skin, and his free fingers, which had drifted up to John's neck, felt like a burning brand. And John, usually the reserved warmth of a partially overcast day or a dying campfire, was threatening to burst into flames and send both men up in columns of spiraling black smoke.

Some part of John's brain just disconnected from the whole—the part which habitually protested at a man's touch—and he was returning Sherlock's unpracticed but surprisingly skillful kiss. His lips, with blood boiling just beneath the delicate skin, parted against the consultant's, and his shaking hand reached up and caught the front of Sherlock's shirt.

Reality came back in an icy rush with the arrival of one Mycroft Holmes in the doorway.

"I would say I was shocked," he said in a bored voice. "But that would be a lie."

Sherlock didn't give any sign that he'd heard his brother, but John leapt in shock and humiliation, breaking both the kiss and the consultant's hold.

"N-no!" he said at once, face crimson. "It's not—it wasn't—we weren't—"

"Do shut up," Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small envelope. "I'm just here to deliver this to my dear little brother. I don't care either way about what you two do in your free time."

"The butler did it," Sherlock answered, casting his brother a withering look. "How boring."

Mycroft rolled his eyes impatiently. "It's not a case this time, you prat," he snapped.

Sherlock looked around inquisitively, eyes narrowed in suspicion. His 'dear' big brother never came to 221B unless he had a case.

"It was on my desk," Mycroft continued. "But it was addressed to you."

"And the sender?" the younger man checked.

"Someone named Rilee Daner. Probably a woman, judging by the handwriting."

"Ah," said Sherlock blandly. "Well, I'll take—"

Before Sherlock could finish, John had plucked the envelope out of Mycroft's small hands and, eager for an excuse to disappear, took it into the kitchen. Sherlock watched him go, a frown creasing his brow, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"A lifetime without any sexual experience at all, and your first is another man?" Mycroft shook his head. "Really, Sherlock?"

Sherlock merely shrugged his shoulders.

"If that's all," said Holmes the younger, "you can go now."

"You know, Sherlock," he said as he went to the front door. "You can't get _everything_ you want so easily."

And he left.

John had left the envelope on the kitchen counter and then locked himself in the bathroom. Elbows on the counter, hair in his fists, he looked thoroughly panicked to himself in the mirror. His cheeks were blotchily pink, and his eyes shone too brightly, like he had a fever. What had just happened? Had Sherlock just _kissed_ him? And had John _let_ him? Not only let him, but reciprocated?

He turned the tap on and splashed cold water on his face repeatedly, trying to cool his burning cheeks. Mycroft had _seen_ them!

A sharp rap on the bathroom door made John jump about a mile into the air, spraying water over the mirror and down his front as he skittered backward.

"John?"

It was Sherlock.

"Er—uhm, yeah?" John answered, trying _not_ to sound frantic, and not doubting for a moment that he had failed most impressively.

"I'm going to the hospital for a bit," he said through the door. "Molly texted, said she needs me for something."

"Ah—okay," John said weakly.

"I'll probably be late," said Sherlock. "Don't wait for me."

"Right," said John.

_Just go already!_ he pleaded silently. _Just go!_

There was a pause. Then—

"Goodnight, John," said the man on the other side of the door.

John's hand was on the doorknob without him realizing how it had gotten there. He pulled away sharply, shaking back the ill feeling in his chest that had been caused by a curious change in Sherlock's voice, a change that left the consultant sounding almost…vulnerable. He couldn't face the man _now_! Not after the scene in the hall.

"Er, yeah," answered John. "Goodnight."

Sherlock didn't answer him. Curious to know why the man who would outlive death to have the last word wouldn't have said something, John cautiously unlocked the door and, ready to pull it tight should there be need, hesitantly inched it open, only to be met with a sliver of the cluttered flat. He opened it wider, and saw nothing else. Straightening up, he pulled the door fully open, and was met with an empty apartment. Sherlock had already gone.

Downstairs, a door opened and closed, allowing uneven footsteps over the threshold with an accompaniment of loud rustlings of plastic bags.

"John, dear?" called a little old woman's voice.

"Y-yes?" he answered, voice startlingly hoarse and unable to carry. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, Mrs Hudson?"

"Would you be a dear and help me with the groceries?"

"Of course, Mrs Hudson!"

"Was that Sherlock that was leaving when I got here?" she asked as he hurried down the steps. "He seemed a bit bothered?"

"Did he?" said John, attempting an air of indifference. Mrs Hudson looked at him, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes, and so do you," she said. "Did you two have a domestic spat again?"

"Mrs Hudson!" John protested. "We're not—I mean, he isn't—I'm not gay!"

Mrs Hudson giggled and waved away his denial as though swatting off some irksome fly. The smile she gave him clearly said she didn't believe him.

"Whatever you say," she chirped, then handed him a load of groceries. "These are for you boys. One can only hope there's room in the fridge past all of his bleeding experiments."

"I doubt that," said John dryly. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"You're quite welcome dear," she answered. "But don't get used to this, alright? I'm your landlady, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Yes, of course," John nodded, and began to teeter back up the stairs beneath the heavy weight of the grocery bags.

"Oh, and John?"

He paused and looked around. Mrs Hudson was looking up at him, her kindly eyes unusually severe.

"You and Sherlock patch things up quickly, alright?" she requested. "I don't think he'd know what to do, if he had to go back to being all alone for very long. He's grown quite accustomed to having you around."

"Has he now?" John said, a trace of skepticism entering his voice. Sherlock, the man who rarely even noticed John's presence, or lack thereof, accustomed to having him around? This was the same man who had waited for hours until John had come home, not noticing that he hadn't even been there, for the doctor to hand him a pen.

"Yes, he has," Mrs Hudson affirmed. "And I think, if you thought about it, you'd realized I was right. Well, goodnight, John."

"Er, yeah…goodnight!" John answered as the little old woman went off to her own devices.

As he began putting the groceries away, John tried to think about what Mrs Hudson had said, but the more he thought, the more he was sure she was just off her rocker. Sherlock never noticed John at all! Didn't notice when he left, or when he returned. Barely seemed to notice him when they were speaking to each other!

But then…Maybe that in and of itself spoke volumes. Sherlock was a man who noticed everything. If there was a speck of dust out of place on the tallest bookshelf of the Library of Congress in North America, the man could point it out and tell you its entire life story. So how exactly did a man so observant seem not to notice, or else understand, when his own flat mate went out? Could it really be because he had just grown used to thinking of John as a permanent fixture in his life, even after only a few short months? True, those short months had been full of things that would either quickly form a strong bond between two people or tear them apart entirely, but could Sherlock of all people have grown to _want_ having someone around him?

John shook away this thought as he had so many others. No, there was no way. Mrs Hudson had to be either joking or entirely misinformed. John was Sherlock's blogger. That was all. And that was perfectly alright by him.

Why, then, did he feel a sick, painful sensation in his heart?


	6. Tension in Iron Cables

Days came…And then they went. Long and silent days they were, too, for every time a certain doctor noticed a certain consulting detective enter the room, he hastily made an excuse to leave, either too embarrassed or too anxious to be near the other man. It wasn't like Sherlock didn't notice this, of course, but if it bothered him he gave no inclination. He just continued to work with Molly at the hospital and Lestrade at Scotland Yard. He was working on a few _small_ cases for a change, things that he didn't find necessary for John's blog, so even if John were to accompany him, he wouldn't be of much use.

This was John's understanding of events. However, John couldn't see the dark downward spiral that Sherlock was tumbling along, a regression caused by an unfamiliar loneliness plaguing his heart. He'd said once, in a joking manner, that he'd be lost without his blogger, but he hadn't realized just how true those words had been. He hadn't felt especially lonely before John, but that could have been because he didn't know what he was missing by not sharing a friendship with someone, because with John avoiding him like he had been, Sherlock had never felt more isolated. Donovan's jabs seemed sharper than usual, and Anderson's venomous insults more toxic. Was it them, or had his perception just changed? Either way, it was bothering him, hurting him, far more than before.

John was sitting at his desk, reading through the recent responses to his blog and smiling at certain comments. One person was left speechless by Sherlock's lack of knowledge on the solar system, while another was wondering if he had taken on any major cases recently. The doctor had to inform the man that no, Sherlock hadn't had anything which he could really put in his blog as an interesting case, and then scrolled up to where he could put in a new entry. He stared at the blank space for some time, itching to write something about what was happening now, and not really having any clue what exactly it was that was happening right now.

"Oh, John," said Mrs Hudson, peering through the doorway. "Do you know where Sherlock might be?"

John looked up from his laptop, blinking hard until his eyes had adjusted to the dimly lit room in contrast to the bright computer screen. Mrs Hudson was looking around, her kindly eyes narrowed as she searched for the other occupant of the flat.

"He's in the back," he answered. "Been there I while. I think he might actually be sleeping."

"First time for everything, I suppose," she sighed. "Well, I'll be off then."

"What do you need?" John asked.

"Molly just dropped by," she told him. "Said Sherlock seemed rather down lately—can't say I disagree, the poor thing's been so quiet—and she just wanted to check up on him."

"Ah," said John, something pricking at his heart. "Well, Sherlock will be in tomorrow, so she can check with him then."

"Yes, I s'pose she'll have to," said Mrs Hudson heavily. Before she went back downstairs, though, she gave John a scrutinizing look that made him wonder if she could somehow x-ray him. "And how are you two getting on?"

"Hm? Oh, fine, we're fine," John said, hastily returning to his laptop in an attempt to look busy.

"Are you sure? You haven't been talking much," she said. "Remember, I asked you to make up quickly."

"He's just busy," said John.

After another shrewd look, Mrs Hudson sighed. "Alright, dear. You have a good night, okay?"

"You two, Mrs Hudson," John answered.

The landlady left, and John's fingers paused on his keyboard. He cast his gaze around the flat to the closed bedroom door. He couldn't say he disagreed with either woman. Sherlock had certainly been coming across more grumpy than usual, and the two of them had barely spoken. John knew, deep down, that it was his fault, but he couldn't do anything about that. If he quit avoiding Sherlock, he'd have to face what had happened almost a month ago, and he had no idea how he was supposed to do that. After all, he'd never, _ever_ kissed another man, not in his whole life. He wasn't _gay_, and yet somehow he'd found himself kissing the most asexual man he'd ever met, possibly the most asexual man that had ever existed. How exactly did one rationalize that?

He looked to the now empty doorway. Mrs Hudson and Molly both must be very worried, seeing their Sherlock in such an unusually low state. Maybe he should just go tell Sherlock to be sure to see Molly in the morning. All he had to do was knock on the door—didn't even have to open it—and tell Sherlock to get an early start for the hospital tomorrow. Surely there wasn't anything dangerous in that?

With a groan, John rose to his feet, shutting his laptop and sliding it to the side of the desk. Hurrying so that he couldn't change his mind, John strode to the closed bedroom door and knocked twice.

"Hey, Sherlock," he called through the door. He got no answer, and called again, louder this time. "Hey, Sherlock!"

Still no answer. He sighed, slid a hand over his sandy blonde hair, and uneasily let himself in. The room was quite dark. The only light that came in was from the now open door and a crack between the drawn curtains of the window beside the bed, which let in just a small line of weak moonlight that seemed to slice the room in half. It was a gloomy setting, to say the least.

"Listen, Molly's worried about you," he began, turning to the bed. "So just make sure you talk to her at…work…tomorrow…Sherlock?"

The bed was empty. The comforter was laying in a heap at the foot of the frame, the two pillows were both on the ground, and the sheets were tangled and hanging half on the floor, a testament to one of two things: either Sherlock was suffering from restless sleep, or he'd been neglecting to make his bed. Knowing Sherlock, it could actually have been a combination of both. But if he wasn't in bed, where was he?

Turning and leaving the bedroom, John noticed a light coming through the crack beneath the bathroom door. How had he missed that, walking right past the bathroom in order to get to the bedroom? He was definitely not as observant as his flat mate.

_Probably taking some sleep medication_, thought John wearily.

"Sherlock, are you in there?" the doctor called, tapping the wood. He got no response, and swore inwardly in frustration. "Damnit Sherlock, would you listen?"

He heard a quiet _clack_ as something small was set down, possibly on the side of the sink or the floor, followed by a muffled _thump_. After that, there was nothing.

Exasperated, John grabbed the doorknob, intent on barging into the restroom regardless of Sherlock's present state, even if it was stark naked, but…It was locked. Sherlock never locked the door.

"Sherlock?" John said, the first sliver of unease in his chest making his voice unsteady. "Is everything alright?"

Still only silence greeted John, and he tried the knob again, obviously to no avail. A thought came unbidden to John's mind, an image that he had almost managed to erase, after determinedly not thinking about it or anything that might remind him. A young man, huddled in a corner, drawing with a glinting steel tool perfect lines of deadly scarlet across pale wrists.

_I haven't even thought of it _once_ since I met you._

"Sherlock! Open this door!" John shouted, hitting the wood violently with the side of his fist. "Open it, or I swear I'll kick it in!"

Still there was no reply. John hit the door again, his throat constricting painfully with fear.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, and his voice broke. "Sherlock, put the razor down! Please!"

When again he was met with silence, John took one step back, squared his shoulders, and kicked out as hard as he could at the spot right beside the doorknob. With the sound of splintering wood as the molding around the door split, the door was flung inwards, slamming loudly into the bathroom wall and likely putting a hole in it with the knob. John was inside in the next instant, heart pounding like a freight train in his throat while his stomach had dropped to the soles of his feet. There was no searching around in that small space for the occupant. He was in plain sight, and John's face went white as he took in the sight before him.

The second man was quite still.


	7. Stitching Iron Back Together

_**Real quick, I want to address the reviews I've gotten thusfar. Thank you so much, I'm thrilled that you're enjoying the story. Yes, I decided to play with your feels a little and allude to Sherlock's final words from Reichenbach. To everyone else, thank you again for reading! I love you all! **_

A slender figure was slumped over the side of the tub, their bare torso glaringly white in the harsh fluorescent lighting. A pair of black slacks hung low on the person's sharp hips, and a black button-down was flung carelessly over the sink.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, staggering forward. He fell to his knees at Sherlock's side and shook his shoulder. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock was listless, shifting limply at John's attempt to rouse him. His dark hair threw his eyes into shadow, and his face was pale—even his lips were colorless. John looked around wildly, and his eyes found the only color in the white bathroom. His stomach twisted painfully.

Despite being an experienced doctor, one that had been in Afghanistan, the bright crimson blood, diluted by about an inch of water, made him feel suddenly ill. There was so much blood that the water scarcely faded the color at all. It was still dripping with consecutive, sickening noises into the tub too, trailing down Sherlock's flaccid hand to hang, momentarily suspended, from the tip of a single long finger. A razor, the blade painted red, sat innocently on the side of the tub, gleaming in the harsh overhead light.

Once the initial shock had passed, John's medical side began to take over. Objectivity was left down some deep, dark hole, but that was not the most pressing part of his training in this scenario. John rose to his feet and went to the cupboard under the sink, taking a washcloth and quickly drenching it in fresh water from the tap, and returning to Sherlock's side. Carefully, he pulled Sherlock around, propping his back against the wall so that he could reach the cuts. They seemed too deep; the rag was quickly soaked in scarlet from washing the blood off of Sherlock's already fair skin. By the time John had wiped away the vicious color, the cloth could have started out as any color.

After he'd finished washing off the excess blood, John sat the cloth on the side of the tub and retrieved the small first aid kit from the medicine cabinet in the wall. He quickly dug the hydrogen peroxide out, unscrewed the cap, and poured a good measure over the fresh cuts, using a clean washcloth to keep any excess from dripping onto Sherlock's pants or the floor, and watched it foam up. Setting the bottle aside, he then dabbed at the wounds with the same rag, carefully but firmly.

Satisfied that the cuts were as clean as they were going to be, John then took the bandages from the first aid kit and began wrapping Sherlock's wrists, cutting the long strip in two so that he didn't have to search for another one for the second arm. Once both bandages were tied off securely, John put away the first aid kit, movements inexplicably slow due to the sudden heavy feeling of his limbs.

Finished treating him, John sat beside his best friend and just looked at his pale face, feeling a dull ache in his chest and throat. This had been his fault, all his fault. Hadn't John sworn to himself that he would never let Sherlock feel alone again? That he would ensure Sherlock had a friend, someone who would keep urges like this out of his mind? And yet he'd been avoiding the man like the plague since that scene in the hallway, never allowing himself to be in the same room alone with him, letting him go alone to deal with Anderson and Donovan and the rest of Scotland Yard. Dimly, John recalled the time Sherlock had explained how he knew the relationship between John and his sibling—though he'd had the gender wrong.

_Amazing_, John had said.

_That's not what people usually say_. Sherlock had only sounded vaguely amused, but only now did John realize just what it might have meant to the man to have heard that one solitary word.

_What do people usually say?_

_Piss off._

John had left him all alone. This bloody scene was all his fault. He hung his head in shame and reached out to touch Sherlock's long-fingered hand. It was cold, but not much more so than normal. Looking around, John realized he had yet to drain the tub of its gruesome contents and rose to do so. He had to rinse it out to completely rid it of the rusty stain, but soon enough it looked like it had before: old, but no longer bloody.

Left with no further reason to occupy the bathroom, John carefully pulled Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and hoisted him up. As he did so, he remembered doing the same for many a soldier in Afghanistan. Those men had been shot or stabbed, and many wouldn't make it through the night, but John hadn't felt overly stricken by their states, dire as they were. Did it make him a bad person, feeling so terrified for a man who, once he overcame this fragile emotional state, would be as good as new, when he could see another man die without flinching? He didn't think so. It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that the arsehole could scare him so much.

They got out of the bathroom without incident, but John accidentally hit Sherlock's other shoulder into the doorframe on their way into his bedroom, causing the other man to jerk and grunt. John glanced over, and caught his blue-green eyes open just a crack. They blinked and opened a little more as the doctor laid him on his bed with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Avoiding the gaze he knew to be following him, John pulled the tangled blankets back over Sherlock's slender body. Despite the fact that Sherlock dwarfed John in size, to the doctor he looked inexplicably small just then. He turned to leave.

"John."

He paused in the doorway.

"I'm sorry."

John stiffened and turned around. Sherlock was still laying down, and his eyes were closed, but his voice had been clear.

"Sorry?" John repeated.

Sherlock nodded without opening his eyes.

"Sorry," he confirmed. He sounded like he was speaking a different language—unsure how to pronounce the word appropriately.

"What for?" John said tiredly. "This was my fault."

"Idiot," Sherlock scoffed.

"I'm not an idiot," John said at once. "There's nothing for you to be sorry for."

"I broke my promise." His voice was unnervingly small. "I did it again, after I told you I wouldn't. I'm sorry."

Heaving a heavy sigh, John returned to Sherlock's bedside and sat down on the edge, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"No Sherlock," he said roughly. "Even after I knew about all this, I still left you alone. I let you down. There's no one to blame but me."

A large hand reached out and grasped John's firmly. The doctor, instead of complaining, twined their fingers together and sat them on Sherlock's hard chest.

"John?" he said again after a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

John rolled his eyes, and just barely bit back a sigh. Sherlock had a way with not letting anything go, and it wasn't because he was wanting someone to forgive him, like most people that continued to apologize, but because he honestly felt that he had done some horrible wrong. After all, for him to apologize at all was nothing sort of a miracle, considering his massive pride. Also, he had the habit of always needing to have the last word, so it wasn't likely that he would stop any time soon. Still, it was annoying.

"Sherlock, didn't we just go—"

"About before," Sherlock interrupted. "With Mycroft. The kiss. I'm sorry."

"Oh—er…" John mumbled, suddenly shy. "I—well, that was—I mean, I didn't—"

"Good God, man," Sherlock snorted. "You're as articulate as ever."

"Shut up," John snapped, glowering at the consultant.

The other man smiled and tightened his fingers around John's. That smile caught John off guard, because it was so authentic, so sincere. It made Sherlock look like a much younger man, one who had not gone through a lonely life of being mocked and scorned by those who acknowledged him at all.

"John?" he said, and John would have sworn that the second man sounded shy, except that Sherlock wasn't _shy_.

"Y—yeah?" John answered, cursing himself inwardly when he stuttered.

"Will you stay with me tonight?"

The doctor blinked, and an intense heat rushed up his neck, into his face and even his ears. He started to pull away, but Sherlock held him firmly, those bright, multi-colored eyes locked on John with an almost pleading stare. John swallowed thickly, and his heartbeat accelerated. Sherlock's lips twitched, likely noticing John's response.

"Oh, sod it all," John sighed, exasperated. "You're not letting me leave anyway, are you?"

Sherlock was silent, but there was the mischievous glint in his eyes hinting that his inner child would love to play a game of strength. Not liking his odds in such a scenario, John slumped.

"Alright," he grumbled. "Budge up, ya great lump."


	8. The Iron Heart Beats

Determinedly ignoring the way Sherlock's brilliant eyes lit up gratefully, John kicked off his shoes, shed his jacket, and climbed onto the bed, wriggling under the covers and immediately turning his back to Sherlock. Not paying any heed to John's position or silent body language, Sherlock reached out and wrapped his slender arms around the doctor's waist.

"Hey—Sherlock!" John protested when he was drawn against the man's chest.

"Quit complaining," Sherlock said dismissively, his warm breath ghosting over the back of John's neck. "It's just for one night."

"But—"

"Please, John."

John stiffened. Sherlock's voice had trembled, only a little, but it was more than noticeable to John, at his plea, and in response John's hands clenched of their own accord. He didn't like hearing Sherlock like that. Sherlock was arrogant and self-centered and extremely sure of himself. He didn't _beg_; he didn't sound _small_. John was thinking more and more about how much he wanted to pull his friend out of this rut.

"Piss off," John muttered, but relaxed in Sherlock's embrace and even covered the pale arms with his own.

His fingers brushed over the rough bandages that now hid the detective's secret shame. An unexpected flare of pride welled up inside of John at the realization that he was the only one that Sherlock trusted with these scars, the only one who could make Sherlock give them up, and the only one that without whom Sherlock could not really be happy. It made him incredibly pleased that he was among the most important people in Sherlock's life, and most certainly the only one the detective trusted exclusively. He might be the only one who could influence this man of iron.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

Sherlock pulled John more firmly against his chest, nestling John's head beneath his chin. John sighed, giving up on fighting, and leaned back in order to be as comfortable as he could manage. His thumb began to stroke Sherlock's bandaged wrist, and the detective shivered.

John couldn't honestly say he _disliked_ laying like this, with Sherlock curled around him, but something about it just felt…well, it felt wrong. This wasn't really Sherlock, and when the sun came around, he couldn't be sure that it would bring the consultant that he preferred to this one. The one who was too cocky and pushy, who was exceedingly childish and rather rude in his brilliance. This sensitive and affectionate Sherlock was honestly scaring him a little, because to be quite blunt, Sherlock Holmes was a self-assured prick, but it was because of that, and because of getting past it, that John had come to care about the man the way he had. Sherlock was _supposed_ to be strong and Devil-may-care. He wanted that Sherlock back.

"Sherlock?" John said hesitantly.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered at once. His low bass resonated against his neck and through his torso.

"I need to know that this won't happen again," he said.

There was a slight pause. Sherlock sighed and leaned his forehead against John's shoulder.

"John, I—" he began.

"I don't want to see you like this," John interjected, cheeks very warm. "I never want you to feel like you have to do this. If you're feeling…bad…I want you to talk to me. I want to help you, but I can only do that if you let me."

Sherlock was silent for a short moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity. John wasn't sure if he felt the other man's chest move with a single breath in that time. Then that man's hands went to John's shoulders, and he was forcing him to turn around. Startled, all John could do was let himself be clumsily rolled over to face the consultant, whose face was so uncharacteristically soft, so strangely vulnerable, that it brought a new and different ache to John's heart despite it also sending uneasy chills down his spine. Those two-toned eyes seemed to glow in the semidarkness.

"John," he said, and his soft voice resonated through the entire room. He had one of those voices, John noted quite irrelevantly, that could command the attention of any person in any situation, no matter how noisy a room, and keep an audience perfectly silent until he was finished speaking. "Stay with me. If I have my blogger, I can swear I'll never do it again."

"And will you tell me _beforehand_ if you feel like you might do this again?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Thank you," John said in relief, a weight leaving him that he hadn't realized had been present.

"Smiling, Sherlock hugged John to him again. John returned his embrace cautiously, hiding his embarrassed expression in the man's chest.

"John, there's something I need to tell you," said Sherlock after a quiet moment.

His heartbeat was thrumming against John's cheek, and it could have been his imagination, but he thought it was a bit faster than it should have been. Sherlock's arms tightened around him.

"I love you, John."

Such a silence fell over the room that, for a split second, John could hear the virtually nonexistent breaths of his partner and the slight whistling of wind outside. Then the quiet was shattered by a thunderous noise in his ears, a cantankerous but steady pounding. What was that? Was it the roaring of his own blood? The pumping of his own heart?

"Erm, Sherlock," he asked unsteadily. "How much blood did you lose, exactly?"

"Not even a pint," Sherlock said at once. "Nowhere near enough for me to be hallucinating, as you clearly think I am."

"Ah—o—okay, then…" John bumbled. What was he supposed to say?

"Don't worry, John," said Sherlock, sounding faintly amused even as his hand slid up to cradle the base of John's head. "I know you won't say anything one way or the other. I didn't tell you because I expected an answer."

Still hiding his face, John's fingers tightened over Sherlock's bare back, his nails digging into his soft skin a little.

"You think you know everything?" he said.

"More or less," Sherlock affirmed, voice definitely amused now.

John groaned. "What does it matter?" he mumbled. "You already know how I feel, don't you?"

"I've made a sound deduction, yes," Sherlock responded.

John sighed and said no more. Very soon, and he was snoring softly, still wrapped in Sherlock's arms with his breath ghosting across his torso. The larger man, kept awake by his own will alone, looked down at his companion, his thumb stroking the doctor's neck. John looked much younger in his sleep, much more innocent.

Sherlock had never been in love before. He'd never even thought of being in love. It simply had never interested him. If caring about someone could interfere with a case, just imagine how _loving_ a person would get in the way! And that _was_ what Sherlock lived for, after all, wasn't it? Solving the case? Emotion, sympathy, caring; it just got in the way, clouded judgment, made everything more difficult. And yet, knowing and understanding all that had not prevented him at last from caring. It had not prevented him from growing entirely dependent on _one_ person. It had certainly not been enough to keep him from falling in love with John, his flat mate and only true friend. There was something to be said simply for that: any man crazy enough to room with Sherlock Holmes and count him as a friend was bound by every natural law to make a space for himself in the detective hard, iron heart.

Sherlock, half exasperated with himself and half contented by holding John, curled himself around the other man, his heart expanding. For the first time in a very long while, Sherlock was able to fall easily into a deep, dreamless sleep. However, even in his sleep, Sherlock could sense the warmth of John's presence the entire time.

_**Alrighty, so here comes the make-your-own-story bit. Do you want more, or are you satisfied with this fluffy ending? Tell me soon, while I'm still focused on Johnlock! **_

_**Aren't simply beautiful? Don't forget to review!**_


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